Devil's Advocate
by wrldpossibility
Summary: What if Castle had seen the glint of the gun just an instant earlier, and had taken the bullet for Beckett?
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Devil's Advocate

**Author:** wrldpossibility

**Fandom:** Castle

**Chapter:** 1/?

**Characters:** Castle, Beckett, ensemble

**Rating:** PG-13

**Spoilers:** Through S3

**Author's Note:**So I was thinking (without giving away specific S3 spoilers in this note): what if Castle had acted an instant faster in the cemetery during the season finale? What if their roles in that final scene had been reversed (hence the title of this fic)? Devil's Advocate picks up in the final minute of the finale, and follows a somewhat AU thread from there. (Oh, and don't worry; I've have a beta by the next chapter.)

Chapter 1

The last thing Kate remembers thinking is that the sun, though directly overhead, is somehow suddenly in her eyes. She blinks it away, just as she sees Castle-first in her peripheral vision, then right in front of her-inexplicably lunging, then outright leaping, knocking into her with the force of a freight train. She falls, and he falls with her, just as she hears the crack of a long-range rifle shot penetrate the quiet of the cemetery. Her head hits the grass heavily, Castle still heavier on top of her, as screams ring out everywhere. Somewhere behind her, Esposito shouts, and there's a confused chorus of scraping metal and footfalls as the rows of metal folding chairs are knocked over, weapons are drawn and cocked, and officers take chase somewhere across the lawn in front of her.

She tries to shout to demand to know what's happened, but Castle's knocked the breath out of her lungs. His arm is slung over her cheek and ear, which are pressed to the ground, and it's when she tries to move it that she sees the blood.

It takes her less than two seconds of rapid self-inventory to know it's not hers. Instead of relief, raw dread shoots through her like adrenaline, and she's able to twist out from under Castle in one graceless movement that triggers a low groan. His eyes focus on hers briefly as she leans over him, one hand already tugging at the collar of his shirt, the other deep in the grass, bracing her weight above him. "Castle!" Nothing. _"CAStle!"_

He just stares, his eyes half-lidded. She wants to shake him, slap him, anything to bring some recognition to his face, but he seems caught in a frozen moment of some private certainty. She leans into him, her fingers working the shirt button at his collar, fumbling, ripping. _"Rick, you listen to me! You answer me!"_

Other people are saying his name now as well, and hers, and pressing closer, but she's already found the source of the blood flow and ripped the shirt partway from his body, her white-gloved hands pressed to the entry wound high on his shoulder. Another few inches, and the bullet would have embedded into his neck.

The blood is seeping between the fingers of her gloves, but it's already lessening. Were this anyone else beneath her, she'd know this isn't a critical injury, but this is Castle and she knows nothing of the sort. His eyes are closing, his head turning away from her on the rebound of a grimace, and she tips it back toward her, the imprint of her fingers staining his chin crimson even through her gloves. _"You stay with me,"_ she tells him, low in his ear, an order. Someone behind her is touching her arm, trying to guide her away, but she locks her knees tightly around Castle and brings her hands back to his face. "Rick." Still a demand, but somewhat softer. She's changing tactics faster than with a suspect in interrogation. His eyes close completely, and she grips his forearms, hard. "Rick!" Her mouth is at his ear again; she can feel the shudder of his breath against her cheek. _"Listen to me: I love you." _

She's not even surprised. _Should_she be? She doesn't know. She doesn't care. "I love you. Do you hear me?" He'd call that a rhetorical question, and a bad one at that, but she's past caring about semantics. She's past pride, and she's over egotism. She's both numb and exquisitely alive.

_"I love you."_

She's 99% sure he didn't hear her, but the remaining 1% left to chance is enough to send a current of anticipation to join the fear coursing through Kate's body as she jogs through the automatic bay doors at New York-Presbyterian, Esposito at her side. Ryan's running the single round extracted from Castle's shoulder through ballistics, but as far as she's concerned, it's an exercise in futility. They all know who was behind that shot.

And they all know it was meant for her.

Castle has pulled through surgery without incident, and is now safely ensconced in recovery. When she checks in at the main desk by the OR, she's told that the armed guard is thanks to the NYPD, but guesses that somehow, Castle has managed to secure the private room all by himself. "Probably mustered the strength to hand over a platinum MasterCard in pre-op," she tells Esposito. He frowns as if to say _what the hell is wrong with you, woman?_and she almost smiles. If he'd had the balls to call her on it, she'd have told him it helps to remain cynical at times like this-keeps her to a familiar routine (or just keeps up pretenses).

Esposito stops to brief the uniforms positioned at the recovery unit entrance, and she hears him say, "Beckett, you wanna ask them-" before she's through the door and gone. Inside the unit, a nurses station stands sentinel, a single R.N. filing something at the desk. "I need to see Richard Castle." For some reason, it doesn't even occur to her to flash her badge.

The nurse just eyes her tiredly. "Immediate family only."

She presents it now, fumbling with it at her belt. She feels off-balance and clumsy, suddenly reduced to a rookie. She's still in her dress blues, sans the gloves and hat. Castle's blood is a darker blue against the fabric on her sleeve.

The nurse is no more impressed than before. "I have a list. Family only. Name?"

Kate shakes her head and clenches her jaw. This isn't a question; it's a challenge. And it looks like they're both in luck, because Kate is _so_ready to kick somebody's ass. She leans into the desk, hands braced on the counter, and delivers her favorite line with cold-hard articulation. "NY-PD." She has every intention of leaving it at that-that's all this woman needs to know-but after a five second stare down, she can't help herself. She breathes hard out her nose. "Kate Beckett." To her horror, this admission comes packaged with a rush of vulnerability-chased by a rising hopefulness-which, in her experience, is often the same thing.

"Not on the list."

"Then there's been a mistake." Both Kate and the nurse turn toward the recovery room door. Martha is wearing the same clothes she'd worn to the funeral too, her black silk scarf askew, but otherwise the picture of steady grace. She approaches the desk and cranes her neck to get a glimpse of the computer screen angled away from them both. "Katherine Beckett." Her hand gestures toward the monitor impatiently, the bangles on her wrist jangling. "Yes, yes...add her on."

The nurse frowns. "Mr. Castle's doctors clearly instructed there was to be no questioning. No police."

"Don't be ridiculous. She's not here in any official capacity."

Is it that obvious? Clearly it is: had she been doing her job, she'd have debriefed first, maybe even returned home to change into street clothes. She'd have gone by the book, followed protocol, and checked in with ballistics. She'd have stayed in the bay to question the uniforms with Esposito, and she sure as hell would have pushed her way right past this R.N. Instead, she's standing here like a goddamned victim who doesn't remember how to move her feet, and she's suddenly so grateful to Martha, her throat's closing up. She can't even thank her.

"Go on, then," Martha prompts, tipping her chin toward the direction of the room. "He's awake."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Devil's Advocate wrldpossibility **Fandom:** Castle **Chapter:** 2/? **Characters:** Castle, Beckett, ensemble **Rating:** PG-13 **Spoilers:** Through S3 **Author's Note:**Continuation of Devil's Advocate, in which Castle is the one shot, not Beckett. Picks up with Beckett entering Castle's hospital room, where he's recovering.

Chapter 2

When Kate enters the recovery room, Castle's half-propped up in bed, his head resting on an oversized pillow, his torso bare. His eyes are closed, but she can tell he's not sleeping. Apart from the thick bandage covering most of his chest and shoulder, he looks ok. _He looks ok._She breathes.

"We're going to get the bastard who did this."

"Beckett." He smiles, his eyes opening just long enough to rest on hers before closing again. He doesn't lift his head from the pillow, but one hand rises and falls lightly on the bed sheet, as though waving away her words. His own are slightly sluggish from whatever is dripping into his IV. "Just so long as...he didn't get...you."

She exhales sharply, the air making a funny sound leaving her lungs. He has this way of punching her in the gut and lifting her up at the same time, leaving her feeling exposed, and confused, and...cared for. Part of her hates it, and part of her..."Dammit, Castle, you should have let me take that hit. Did you really think I didn't know I was a target? I was wearing a vest under my blues."

pHe blinks at her. "You were?" She gives him a half-shrug that she hopes conveys both 'of course' and also, 'duh'. It serves to make her feel more in control of this conversation, and that feels good. Or better, at least. Castle looks petulant. "Where was mine?"

_"Where was...? Why would I..."_He doesn't follow orders, that's why not. And this rogue agent angle he likes to work is getting old. It's going to get him killed, is what it's going to do. It's...

"Why would you...what?"

"Why would I prep you for a contingency _you_ shouldn't be facing? Maybe no one told you, but you're _not_a cop, Castle." He's going to get himself killed. He's going to get himself killed. She looks at him, lying in the hospital bed, bandaged. Bloody. Suddenly, she's seething.

Castle tries to prop himself up higher in bed, gives up. "Wait. Are you..._angry_? Because I thought I was...saving..your life. That was the plan, you know."

"No one _asked_ you to save me!" What is she doing? She's berating a man recovering from a gunshot wound. A man who may not know it, but she loves. Actually, physically, fully _loves_ like no other man in her life. Is this what that's like? Because this _sucks_.

When Martha got her in here, Round One (or one hundred) probably wasn't what she had in mind, but Kate can't stop now. She can't. What she ican/i do is force herself to slow the pulse pounding in her temples until she is Kate Beckett, homicide detective, not Kate Beckett, lovesick, tortured love interest. And Kate Beckett, homicide detective would call him on his shit. "You're a hypocrite, Castle."

"A hypocrite? Excuse me?"

She's right...isn't she? "You tell _me_to back off, slow down, walk away? Not to sacrifice myself for a cause? You did the same!"

He's managed to fully sit up now, and as far as Kate can tell, he's just as pissed as she is. He laughs once, hard. She can tell the effort is painful, but if he's regretting it, he doesn't admit it. "I didn't...dive in front of a bullet...for a _cause,_Kate."

He delivers this information like the ace in the hole it is, but somehow, she suspects he didn't even intend for it to be a zinger. Instead, just like that, he's disarmed her again. She closes her mouth, drops her hands, feels herself literally deflate. What was she _thinking,_ standing in here yelling at him? She must be out of her mind. She _feels_out of her mind. Her throat tightens again, and she knows her voice risks breaking if she doesn't come on strong. "Still, it was reckless, and pointless, and..." She can't do it. She trails off, both hands rising again to her temples, fingers fisting. God, she just wants to rip her hair out. She's acutely aware that he's watching her unravel.

For a moment, neither of them says anything. "Kate?" He sounds tired, if cautious, like the moment's finally bulldozed over him. She keeps herself half-turned away from him in the bed, stares at a spot on the wall. She's done enough damage. "I imagine you've already...figured this out...from my stunt...in the cemetery today, but...I love you, too."

She can't turn. She can't look at him. Why can't she look at him? The worst part is, he doesn't even seem surprised. "Close the door...on your way out...will you? I'm not sure I'm up for any more visitors."

Is this what Royce called 'the hard part?' This uncertainty? This exposure of self that flies in the face of self-preservation? She's pretty sure it is, but 'hard' doesn't usually scare her like this. She usually revels in hard, welcomes it with open arms, because somewhere in the middle of the struggle, the pain and the fear can be sweated away.

This time, both just keep coming, out her pores and her fists and her mouth through her words. She's so angry…with the shooter that still eludes them, at Montgomery for dying, at Castle for trying to follow suit. At the universe, she supposes. At herself. Mostly at herself. Mornings and evenings, it's just her and the gym, her and the kickboxing dummy in the basement of the precinct, her and the pavement beneath her feet. Castle's been discharged, but he's being taken care of at home by Martha and Alexis and Kate is too afraid to intrude. Or rather, too afraid she would ibe/i intruding. Maybe ithat's/i the hard part: the risk of the offering. The wide-open vulnerability she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy.

The first time she's face-to-face with him since his release, they're at Montgomery's memorial service (or more aptly, drunken tribute) at The Old Haunt. For most of the evening, he's surrounded by well-wishers, detectives, precinct beat cops, and Haunt wait staff hanging on every word of his moment of glory. The interesting thing is, it's not Castle doing most of the talking. Esposito has taken the story and run with it, Ryan butting in every few seconds, others chiming in about the chaos on the lawn, the aftermath, the pursuit. No one mentions Kate. Everyone's tossing back Whisky sours, but she watches Castle nurse his, the condensation on his glass beading underneath his hands encircling it.

It's after midnight when he finds her in the back hallway, near the bathrooms. She's leaning against the wall, her own Whisky glass abandoned on the ledge behind her. Truth be told, she had been contemplating making an exit through the basement.

He doesn't comment on her eminent retreat. "Thought they'd never shut up." He leans against the wall next to her. "Of course, for all their keen powers of observation, they seem to have missed the best part of that story."

"Best part?" Instantly, her throat is seizing up. Her heart is pounding.

"Kate."

She stares at her shoes. She's wearing her only pair of Blahnik heels; the hem of her black silk dress is skimming her thighs above the knee. She's not exactly prepared for a quick getaway. She can feel him looking at her, but without risking a glance back in his direction, she can't decide if he's still angry with her. She doesn't know when she became such a coward.

After a moment, he sighs. Maybe it's disappointment she feels radiating from him, not anger. "Anyway, don't worry. I'm known for my discretion."

Her head jerks up and she stares at him. She can't help it. He smiles, but the gesture doesn't reach his eyes like it usually does. "Oh wait, you're right. I must be thinking of someone else. _Anyone_else. You, maybe." He reaches for his phone in his jacket pocket. "Hold on while I call off the press conference."

She laughs. "Castle-"

"Just one sec. " He holds up one finger while he places a mock call. "One message to Gina should do it, unless the Times has already run with it, in which case, I'm not sure even the mayor could-"

"Castle!"

"Yes?"

Oh. He's good. She forces herself to keep eye contact as she says what she needs to say. "I want to tell you I'm sorry. For yelling at you...;you know, in the hospital." It sounds even more heinous when spoken out-loud.

"Well, I wish you wouldn't be. "

"Excuse me?"

"_I'm_ not. I'm not sorry for trying to talk you off the case, for telling you to walk away from your mother's killer, for physically forcing you out of that airplane hanger. I'm not sorry for any of it, and you know why. It's the same reason you took one look at me in recovery and berated me for risking my life for you. You care, Kate, and I know it's terrifying. The question is, are you sorry for _that_?"

She watches his face as he speaks. He's turned toward her, shoulders squared, jaw set, braced for impact. Is she really that woman, who'd rather be safe than happy? Who'd rather break someone's heart than take a risk? Is she a coward? She thinks of her mother, and how much she misses her every single day. How much she'd give for the chance to have her back in her life. She thinks of Josh, who hasn't crossed her mind in days. She looks at Castle, who's here. Who—by some undeserved blessing—is in her life every single day, until the day she ruins it. She can't live to see that day. She wouldn't survive it. "No."

His mouth quirks, a twitch really, that he tries to curb as he searches her face to make certain of what she's conceding. "I'm not sorry," she repeats, and is rewarded with the beam of his smile.

He reaches for her hand, tugging it-and her-away from the wall. "Then what are we doing? Come here." She smiles, she wants this, what he's offering, but it's so hard to open her arms. So hard to encircle them around his chest. So hard to-

"You're not going to break me. I'm deceivingly tough for a man who hardly works for a living." He pulls her into him, and his arms slide around her waist, and the solid bulk of him is, without exception, the best thing she's felt in months. Years. Decades.

"I know that." She's laughing, suddenly giddy. Her words are muffled against his shirt collar, which smells like musk and detergent and faintly of sweat, and she could just sink into him if he'd let her. And he would. Let her. The knowledge brings tears springing to her eyes and she's glad he can't see her face.

But then, good god, she's actually crying: soft, near-silent sobs of relief and fear and...dammit, this is why she doesn't hug people. She's crying for her mother, for Montgomery, for Castle, for herself, for the gratitude she feels with his arms around her, for the electricity running between them that scares her so badly. Castle doesn't say a word, just holds her against him, one hand pressed solidly to the small of her back, the other at the back of her head, holding her into him. His fingers thread through her hair, tentatively at first, then stroking rhythmically. The gesture is so intimate, it should startle her, but it doesn't.

The darkness of the hallway hides them for a moment that stretches to minutes, and then he steps back from her, looking into her face. She resists the impulse to wipe her eyes. He steers her by the shoulder toward the back staircase, his words a whisper in her ear.

"Shall we go?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:**Devil's Advocate

**Author:**wrldpossibility

**Fandom:**Castle

**Chapter:**3/3

**Characters:**Castle, Beckett, ensemble

**Rating:**PG-13 bordering on R

**Spoilers:**Through S3

**Author's Note:**The last of three parts (though one-shots in this universe may be forthcoming.)

Chapter 3

They leave through the basement entrance, laughing like kids as they emerge at street level. Castle hails a cab before Kate has time to think _what next_, and the next thing she knows, she's sliding into the back seat and they're staring at each other as the cabbie waits expectantly for an address.

Castle frowns before consulting her. "Martha and Alexis are home..."

"My dad's staying at my apartment for the night, didn't want to take the train."

The feeling of being a kid playing hooky intensifies. _Where can they go?_ Kate stares at the back of the cabbie's head, as though the answer lies there, then turns back to Castle: is he even on the same page? He's busy watching her watching him, his eyes catching hers and holding. _Yeah...same page._She swallows.

She racks her brain for the address of the low-budget hotel the precinct uses to hold star witnesses. It's nearby, right? What's it called? The Metro? The Broadway? "The Cosmopolitan," she tells the driver. "Broadway at Chambers Street."

Castle visibly blanches. "Whoa, whoa, what?" He leans forward, speaking through the glass partition. "Let's make that the Waldorf."

He shoots her a look of abject bafflement as the cab merges into lower-west side traffic. "The _Cosmo?_What am I to you, a perp? Don't answer that."

She laughs again. God, everything is so funny. "Does it really matter, Castle?"

"What I am to you or where we go? Either way, the answer is yes. Of course it does." He gives her a beat to digest this, then: "I don't even want to guess as to the thread count at the Cosmo."

Thread count. Sheets. Oh shit. Next to her, Castle's doing the same math. Maybe-for once-he's considering-belatedly of course-the merits of thinking before speaking. "I didn't mean-"

"You're not afraid of me, are you, Castle?"

He grins at her. "What do you think?"

She forces herself to hold his gaze as he arcs one perfectly groomed eyebrow at her. _Who's chicken now?_"I think you're terrified."

The suite is posh, lavish, even; the gold tones in the heavy draperies play with the light of the single sconce they've left shining in the entry, forgotten along with Castle's coat and Kate's hand bag discarded on the floor. In hindsight, she's amazed they had the wherewithal to close the door behind them at all; after sliding the key card in the lock, they got only so far as the ornate fireplace against the closest wall before Castle's hand was skimming the back of Kate's neck, turning her to him.

Suddenly, she's frozen. How does this actually begin? Castle's hands are framing her face, he's close enough for her to make out every eyelash, the closeness of his shave, the precise curve of his lower lip, which is curving into part smile, part smirk, part inquiry as she watches. If he's going to kiss her, will he just do it already?

Or maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe he's wondering how they got here, and how to get back out of it. Maybe he's come to his senses and wishing she'd do the same. "Rick?"

His fingers tighten on her jaw for just an instant as she speaks his name, and then his mouth comes down on hers, harder than she imagines either of them expected. She falls back slightly, taking a step to keep her balance, and he lets up-slightly-the pressure of him softening, complying to her before regaining intensity. She leans back into him, her hands finding the back of his neck, under the collar of his shirt. His eyes close, and he sighs against her lips.

"Well. That was a first."

She frowns; he couldn't have forgotten. "No it's not."

He shifts her by the shoulders, and she permits being led backward until the small of her back finds the wall just to the side of the fireplace. "I don't count the last time. You were on an operation."

"So?" He lets his weight fall against her. Every inch of her springs back to life.

"So you'd do anything for an operation."

She considers this. Can't discount it. "And what would Nikki Heat do?"

All trace of teasing leaves his voice. He becomes adorably stern. "You're not Nikki Heat."

"Hypothetically, though. After all, you're the creative consultant."

He slides his hand down and back up her arm, runs it deliciously close to the bare hint of skin where her neckline meets her collarbone. "She and Rook would probably stop talking, and start making out like teenagers."

She has no idea what the bed sheet's thread count is, nor does she care. Much more amazing: she's pretty sure Castle doesn't either. The Cosmopolitan would have worked just fine, but she resists the urge to say she told him so.

They're both half-dressed, or more accurately, half _un_dressed, and the king-sized bed's already a tangle of linens and pillows and more pillows. They'd been making decent progress on both the bed and the clothing situation, but now Castle seems to be stalling, toying with one shoulder strap of her bra. "What?" She sounds breathless, probably because she _is_breathless.

"I have to ask you something. You won't like it."

She sits up, waits for it.

"Josh."

Oh. She lies back down, props up on one elbow to look at him. "I had a conversation with Josh days ago. Right after you were shot."

He blinks. "You...?" She watches him bite his lower lip, nod. "I love you."

She thrills to it; she can't help it. She's grinning like an idiot as he presses her back into the nearest pillow, his mouth back on hers before leaving just as abruptly to brush against her shoulder, her throat, her chest just shy of her cleavage. He looks back up at her. "Also? I'm sorry."

"It was a long time coming."

Kate had long-suspected Castle would be good in bed-it hardly takes a detective to put that together-but the reality? Is impossible to even put in words. So she just lies there instead, letting the sweat cool on her skin, allowing herself sink into the mattress as Castle traces indecipherable letters and words on her back. She refuses to play.

The sun's coming up, and they're just discussing the possibility of room service when the phone rings. In her groggy, half-intoxicated-without-having-had-a-single-drink state, Kate first mistakes the source as the room phone Castle's picked up to place the order before realizing that it's her own. Buzzing on the floor.

She reaches for it very, very slowly, crossing her fingers as she turns it over to read the display, then sighs. "Beckett."

When she ends the call, she dials again. Half a second later, Castle's phone vibrates on the bedside table and he glares at her before answering. "Why, good morning, Detective Beckett."

She lies back next to him and stares up at the ceiling. "We have a body at the corner of 44th and Lex whose murder is not likely to solve itself. Care to join me?"

He follows her line of sight to the gold-leaf scroll eight feet above them. "I don't know. I kind of had plans."

"What sort of plans?"

"Mostly of the wanton debauchery variety."

"Sounds hard to pass up."

"You're telling me."

They're forty-five minutes late to the crime scene, and they've already crossed the yellow tape to where Lanie's bending over the body before it occurs to Kate that their paired arrival will warrant some explaining.

Lanie squints up at her into the morning sun. "Are you still wearing your clothes from last night?"

Oh, and that too.

"Long story. What have we got here?"

"Thirty-something male Caucasian, estimated time of death-wait. What's the story with the clothes?"

"No story, I was just...out...after drinks at the Haunt...and Castle was just..."

"What's this now?" Esposito comes up behind her. "Where were you guys? Took you long enough to get here."

"Oh, well, we just…" She's _actually_turning red. She can feel it. She glares at Castle, which, in hindsight, is probably a mistake.

Esposito's eyes widen to the size of saucers. "No way. No _way!_"

Castle leans near her to whisper in her ear. "Remind me to never invite you to play poker."

"Listen, Javi-"

"Ryan! You better get over here, bro!"

Ryan ducks under the tape past the gathering lookie-loos. "Yeah, per usual for this neighborhood, no one saw a thing-oh my God." He looks between Kate and Castle. "No way!"

"Right?"

"You've got to be kidding me." The heat's spread everywhere now; Kate's pretty sure even her ears are red. She gives the vic her full attention; she's actually beginning to envy him. Rick rests one hand on her shoulder, just briefly, before turning back to the boys. "Hey, hey. Dead body? Day's work? Sound like a plan?"

For some reason, they always listen to Castle.

Back at the precinct, it's a different story. "So...last night, huh?" Esposito nudges Castle as he's pouring coffee; he almost ends up wearing it. He frowns, as though something's just occurring to him. "Or was it today? I don't need specifics or anything, but seriously…before midnight? After midnight...?"

Castle just reaches for the creamer. "A gentleman never kisses and tells. What's the deal with the 20 questions? Not enough action with Lanie these days?"

"Hey, now..."

"That's right: two can play this game."

Esposito looks from Castle to Kate, then back again. Evidentially, he's feeling brave, but only marginally so; he sidles up to Castle. "'s just a friendly little departmental pool we've had going on for a while now. Since they put in that parking space in the garage no one's claimed. You know, to make things...interesting." The last word squeaks out in a near whisper under the pierce of Kate's glare. She's glad. "Of course, it's probably already interesting...for you..."

Kate looks up from the report in front of her. "Know what else is interesting? How much paperwork is involved in a homicide."

Esposito nods, clearly glad for the distraction. "I hear ya."

"Of course, if there wasn't quite so much, I might be tempted to give it a whirl myself, you know?" She stares pointedly at him, and he stops nodding.

"Yeah, I'd better be going...to do...that thing..." He's halfway to the elevator bank when Ryan returns from the evidence room, dropping a stack of papers on Kate's desk. "Hey Ryan, what's today?" he calls back over his shoulder. "The 26th?"

Ryan consults his phone. "26th. Yep." Kate watches as comprehension dawns. "Wait, who had the 26th? Janice? In payroll, was it?"

"Dunno. Better send out an all-department memo." Esposito grins as the elevator doors close behind him.

Kate's jaw drops, but Castle's turned back to Ryan, tipping his head in thought. She knows that look. No good comes of that look. He hefts himself up onto the corner of her desk like he owns it, feet swinging. "You guys think Janice might be agreeable to a share-type of arrangement on that parking spot?"

She can't help it—she never has been able to help it when it comes to Castle, and from now on, she never wants to—she laughs.

She's still laughing as Ryan leaves the room and Castle swivels toward her, grinning.


End file.
